


Darkness, I Feel Like Letting Go

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Towards Ecstasy [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance, Smut, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2623406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years since Sherlock left with Moriarty to bring him to justice, John has been alone waiting for his return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness, I Feel Like Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> another installation of my Wingfic inspired by the songs of Sarah McLachlan
> 
> Thanks mattsloved1 for interrupting your reading of Percy Jackson to read this through:D

The snow swirled down, large enough to see each flake in splendid individuality. The night air was brisk and each breath drawn in through John’s nose, crinkled the lining. The cold wasn’t just on the outside, wrapped around him. It had entered into his lungs, his chest and had encased itself around his heart. A shard of loss, sharp and deadly, had turned it into a frozen lump more thoroughly than any Ice Queen could have. Sorrow was a weight, frigid and dense, one he carried, one that could be seen in his posture and in his eyes if one dared to look.

In jarring contrast to the frozen pain and misery on the inside, the streets were decked with the warmth of fairy lights and garland; his eyes avoided those reminders of the season, reminders that a person was expected to be happy. He concentrated instead on the flakes as they drifted down. The lights were too cheerful, too bright. He preferred the dark, dark where he could hide or let go. The only exception being the hypnotic eddy of white, the flurry as cold and perfect as his mourning. A sort of calm descended, settled his mind, as the snow blanketed the city and his chaotic thoughts. 

He stood on the pavement just outside 221 and shifted his feet, jiggled the bag of neatly wrapped presents for Mrs. Hudson. He hadn’t been able to step inside since Sherlock had disappeared in front of him, taking the rebel angel Moriarty to be judged by whatever higher authority ruled the universe.

John looked at the ground, looked at the snow as it blew around the doorstep, gathered in the corners. It was pure and it glittered from the light of the streetlamps. It sparkled, clean and bright. He tried not to think of the glow from the lamp in their bedroom on Sherlock’s wings. The light would glimmer and swirl in his wings, rotated like a million galaxies, the reverse of the snow, coal black, but shining the same way. He closed his eyes, drifted like the snow, drifted down into images of sight and sound and smell, images of the way Sherlock’s wings trembled as he trembled, moved with each thrust, the brush and sound of them, the pant and gasp of John’s name. Warmth spread through John, cinnamon and orange. Fingernails traced along Sherlock’s spine, his wings thunder cracked as orgasms, sweet, and terrible crashed over them, wearing Heaven and Grace. Wings swept the floor, spread to the ceiling, as he rode John, head thrust back, long pale throat exposed. Harsh and tender like his mouth, like his kisses, words shouted to the night. Then he would look down at John beneath him, eyes more complex with colours layered, deeper than the clusters of stars on his wings.

Grim reality, icy loss and sorrow, brought him back, feet shuffled again on the doorstep as he geared up, found his courage to open the door. Before he reached for the knob, he glanced down the street where the snow fell thicker, a curtain drawn. He frowned. Someone or something was there, just beyond where he could see clearly, obscured by the pattern of snow, a black shape.

A small hope arose, fierce and brilliant in his heart, worked its way through his chest. His heart, which moments before would have shattered with one more blow, gave a lurch and a wild erratic thump. 

The snow parted and Sherlock stood, close and real.

“Sherlock?” his voice rusty from disuse. John had lived the last two years in his head, not speaking to many.

“Hello, John,” he breathed; heat rushed in and encircled John. Melted the ice in his chest. Sherlock moved quicker than thought as John’s knees gave way and he held him close, holding his burden of grief and pain as if it were nothing, as if John’s sorrow was easy to take upon himself and banish. It hadn’t felt that way when john had been carrying it alone.

John placed his head upon Sherlock’s chest and breathed in the heated spice and smell of him, the tangible cinnamon taste, the aura of comfort and bliss. Wings, glorious and safe, wrapped around John, sheltered him from the storm of winter, the storm of grief

“I have missed you, John Watson,” was whispered in his ear. 

John didn’t notice the bag of presents fall from his hand, to lay on the cold cement pavement, as he lifted his head and raised his hand to grip the back of Sherlock’s neck, brought that impossible angel face, demonic mouth to line up with his own. “You stupid git. Do you know what you have done to me?” He crushed Sherlock’s mouth with his own, pillaged and owned it. 

Snow fell as they stood there. Fell as John Watson and Sherlock returned to earth.


End file.
